


Into the Night

by Interjection



Series: The Above and Below [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, The Syndicate is a criminal organization lmao, a superpower au where heros and villains arent the central focus?, aka phil and sam fight over who gets to be tommy's dad, for an au this is really inspired by canon, its more futuristic but whatever, whats this?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29969178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interjection/pseuds/Interjection
Summary: “Don’t touch me,” Tommy hisses, leaning against the railing. “I will - I will-”They’re a hundred stories up. Wind lashes against Phil’s face. Next to him, Sam makes choked noise.“But why?”Tommy looks up to meet Phil’s eyes, terror struck so deep in those pale blue irises Phil thinks they must hold all the world’s fears within them.“You’ll die,” he whispers. “And then I’ll die. But I’ll come back.”“And I don’t want to come back.”Others have the freedom to live. Tommy doesn’t even have the freedom to die.But maybe they can teach him that living doesn’t have to be so bad.---(Superpowers AU where whenever someone touches Tommy, they both die. But Tommy will always come back to life eventually. He just wants it to end - but instead, he’s on the run, terrified of how his power will be exploited if he’s caught.A few people reluctantly team up to save him.)
Relationships: Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: The Above and Below [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204277
Comments: 89
Kudos: 818





	Into the Night

He has a lurker.

Wilbur smiles, and plays a few soft chords as he turns to the left. A pair of blue eyes blink from behind the building corner. 

The conservatory’s parking lot was busy earlier today, bustling with people eager to view an upcoming jazz performance. He had taken the opportunity to sit by and busk for a few hours, and now a pile of cash sits on a nearby suitcase. 

Of course, Wilbur could have been _in_ the performance - or just asked Phil for any amount of money, really, but he was found on the streets singing out his heart for a living and even now, 15 years later, he still feels that performer’s call on the bustling musical landscape. A step away from ornate auditoriums and back to that simple, carefree life stripped of expectations.

Much more carefree now that making money isn’t actually an issue, Wilbur thinks wryly. Those blue eyes are trained on his guitar, but they flicker to the suitcase nonetheless in regular enough intervals.

“Hello!” he calls. “Do you need some help?”

There’s a shift of unease behind him, but they both know better than to interfere. Wilbur smiles, a gentle expression he’s perfected over the years to melt down hesitation and distrust. 

“You can come over,” he adds, placing a bit of encouragement into the words. Not too much, but hopefully enough to initiate the first step. From the corner of his eye he sees Hbomb give him a warning look from behind the car. In the driver’s seat, Niki looks up from her phone. 

Slowly, from the corner, a boy stumbles out. He’s a teenager, hair a gray-stained blond and hands criss-crossed with cuts and bruises. 

Homeless, by the looks of it. Probably an orphan abandoned to wander the streets. He has on a tattered black T-shirt and jeans ripped in all the wrong places. A pair of mismatched sandals, undoubtedly stolen, are the only thing that protects his feet.

Wilbur feels the sympathy rising. It’s an eerily familiar sight, throwing him back for just a moment into memories of a man with looming black wings and soft smiles, reaching to hand him a new winter coat. 

“Do you need money?” He gestures at the suitcase. “I’m playing for fun, so you can take it all if you want.”

It’s strange. There’s orphanages which - well, they’re not _great,_ but they serve decent meals and a warm place to shower and sleep. The boy looks more than young enough to still be allowed in one, and even afterwards they make exceptions for young adults who help around. 

“What do you want?” the boy asks. 

“What?” Wilbur tilts his head. He adds more innocent reassurance into the tone, letting his power seep in slowly. It’s not ideal, but clearly there’s a distinct lack of trust going on, if the bitten lips and shifting stances is anything to go by. The boy looks like a pigeon ready to flee any second from Wilbur’s stomping boots.

“No one gives out stuff for free,” is the spitted response.

Wilbur’s intimately familiar with that reality. It’s true - and yet so false.

“What about your name?” he asks.

The boy glances down, and then back up. 

“Tommy.”

“Well, Tommy,” Wilbur says. “Your skin looks about ready to fall off your bones, so forgive me if I’m somewhat concerned.”

“What, you give some fucking pity dollars to random kids all the time? Look good for the cameras?”

Tommy pauses - and then his eyes widen. Regret flashes in them, just as quickly. 

“I just don’t like kids starving around here,” Wilbur says. He plucks a few more chords and internally smiles at the way Tommy relaxes against the beat. “We have all our modern technology and people with powers that can fix our problems. And yet there’s still-”

He pauses. 

_People like you._

_People like me._

“-hunger,” Wilbur finishes. “It’s fine, take the money and buy something nice for yourself.”

“A gun,” Tommy immediately says. 

“Sure.” Wilbur rolls his eyes. If Tommy can produce a fake ID with a fake age and bypass all the background checks for potential misuse, that is. 

It’s a pretty funny thought, to imagine him trying. 

“I need it!” Tommy protests, clearly seeing Wilbur’s disbelief. 

“For what?”

He looks to the ground at the question, eyes darkening. Fingers curl and clench, and begin to shake. 

“To keep people from stealing my shit,” he mutters, voice wavering. Wilbur thinks he sees the beginnings of tears.

He _definitely_ detects the beginnings of a panic attack, in the legs so stiff they look ready to topple over, and increasingly shallow breaths, like a fan with its cords half-severed. 

What kind of fucked up backstory does he have, then?

Wilbur could use his power to find out, make Tommy confess. He almost does - but Techno’s disapproving scowl crawls from his subconsciousness and forces his hands - words - last second. 

He sighs, and stands up.

Tommy immediately _shrieks,_ a piercing sound that slams Wilbur’s eardrums and sends him stumbling back in surprise. 

“Stay - stay the _fuck_ away from me! I have a fist and I can punch you so hard women will never look at you again because all your teeth will be missing oh fuck I-”

Those few still lingering around the parking lot are staring. That’s not good, and Tommy seems aware of it too, but he only screams louder as he stumbles back behind the building corner.

“Tommy, don’t-”

“ _Fuck you!_ Go away! I don’t want your pity money and I _will_ kill you because I’m so fucking powerful so screw off back to your bitchy rich dad or whatever-”

Wilbur stiffens at that last part. 

“How do you-”

“I see your guards,” Tommy growls. “Fancy rich boy with morals to prove, huh?” His shoulders are hunched, eyes flickering between Wilbur and a blinking Niki still stationed in their car, rolling down the window. Hbomb places a hand on his gun holster. 

Wilbur suppresses a sigh as Tommy skitters back another few steps. 

Reaching down, he scoops up all the loose bills from the suitcase and shoves them into an empty wallet. It’s a few hundred dollars in all - he had intended to drop them off for the local school’s band program, but considering their current situation…

He throws the wallet, and Tommy catches it with a yelp, fumbling the shape against his chest. 

_Huh,_ Wilbur thinks faintly. _I actually aimed that well._

“I won’t come closer if you don’t want me too, okay?” he says. “Now don’t be an idiot and actually get yourself some proper food and clothes. I have no idea how you survived winter in this state.”

Tommy flinches again for some reason, guilt pooling deeper in his eyes like an endless lake that only rises with each rainfall. Wilbur’s seen such tragedies before - hopefully, Tommy’s won’t spill over and flood like so many others.

_Just what that fuck is this kid dealing with?_

He hears only a whispery, muttered _“thanks”_ before the kid disappears behind a white, concrete wall. 

“Well, I think I’m done for the day,” Wilbur says when it's only him, Hbomb, and Niki within earshot. He carefully fits his guitar back into its black felted case, and zips it shut. Closes the suitcase with only a few dozen coins still rattling around inside. 

The car door opens and shuts with quiet clicks. Wilbur wonders if Tommy’s ever ridden in a car before. Surely, when he still had parents? No baby survives abandoned on the streets, and clearly there’s some complication - likely with his power - that prevents him from surviving on government resources like orphanages. 

Or having much human contact at all, apparently. 

“Niki, take us back to headquarters,” Wilbur yawns.

“Are you going to investigate?” Their car, a small, unassuming blue, begins backing out the parking space.

“Been a while since I’ve done anything interesting,” he says, nodding. “Tommy... there’s more to him, don’t you think?”

“I think he’s just nuts,” Hbomb says, shrugging. 

“I agree with Wilbur,” Niki says, voice tightening. “He looked so scared. And it was - it was like he knew what would happen and was terrified of it anyway.”

_Like he knew what would happen and was terrified of it anyway?_

Wilbur’s thumb hovers over his contact list. _Dad_ is centered in a bolded black. 

Should he…?

No, Phil has enough to deal with as it is. Besides, Wilbur isn’t incapable in the slightest. 

It’s time he does something on his own for once. 

* * *

It’s cold. It’s dark. Tommy is against a wall, again. And there’s someone baring a fist against his face. 

Again. 

“I’m sorry, don’t-”

“Shut up, brat,” his attacker growls. Hair gray and coarse as pavement gravel, hands oily with the filth of city alleyways. Tommy, despite himself, flinches away. 

There’s nowhere to flinch to, of course. The man before him stalks forth, knuckles lined with just a hint of tensed paleness. Like a dying star ready to swallow his life whole in compensation. 

Tommy slumps against the brick wall. Its rough points dig into his cheeks and he tries to focus on that, instead of the person in front of him. 

When the impact comes, it’s fast and silent. He takes a shallow breath once, twice, keening at the white, stabbing pain of his soul being ripped apart.

And then, Tommy dies. 

  
  


It’s cold. It’s dark. And once upon a time, Tommy wanted to live. 

And live he will. He knows how the story goes, every time his beating heart stills into nothingness. He’s reminded that he wants to go back to death’s increasingly comforting embrace and never slip away again. 

However, this is not the tale of a Tommy who will achieve peace within the embrace of death. This is the tale of a Tommy who will live again, and again, and again. And learn to hate it. 

His life returns, and his vision shortly afterwards. 

Tommy’s attacker is sprawled before him, mouth open in a silent scream. The air around is still pulsing with the unnaturalness of breaking death’s barrier. He carefully averts his gaze from the eyes. 

Clawing himself up against the wall, clutching the wallet with its shiny new cover - the only thing not sullied deep with grime in this alley - Tommy staggers over the body. 

He’s gone long before the death is reported. 

* * *

When Sam arrives at the scene, he nearly throws up. 

Embarrassing sensitivities aside, this could rank among the worst cases he’s ever seen simply by virtue of how _unsettling_ the corpse is. 

“Second one this month,” Puffy says, still typing details into her tablet. “Eighth in the past 3. You think we should call this serial killer work?” 

Sam turns to consider the body. 

Blackened spots crawl like rot in splotches across the poor soul’s skin, ashen and crumbling into fine powder when touched. It’s cold as ice, perhaps colder, and yet it feels fragile as newly printed paper. Like a single wayward tug could rip a limb as easily as soft cotton. The right hand is the worst - a mess of curled black lines that snap like brittle winter twigs. 

They know, because a single accidental jostle had seen it happen. 

The victim’s also wearing a Christmas sweater. It’s a horrendous purplish green with star shaped patterns along the sleeves. A reindeer is knitted across the front, with an expression like it had just swallowed a bucketful of sour candy. Smears of what seems like crude oil soaks into the yarn. 

The eyes are wide, pupils encased in a cage of veins like heated wire. They’re a terrified, glassy votex that seems as though they had stared into the thundering soul of death itself and been petrified forever by its incomprehensibleness. 

“Serial killers usually have consistent victim types,” Sam says. He takes another moment to wonder if he should regret having barreled through the ranks as fast as he did, to get assigned a case like this. “What did you say were the previous ones?”

“A student from the university was the first one. 19, female, found dead in her dorm room,” Puffy lists with a clinical flatness that could have fooled nearly everyone else, but Sam sees the way her fingers pause and tremble. “Then, a man who was at a restaurant with his wife, 61 years old. Suddenly died in the middle of his meal. 5 more over the span of three months. And now this person. They all have the same black spots and cold body.”

“So it’s a specific power,” Sam hums. “Which doesn’t need touch or close proximity to work. And does… this.”

“Autopsies have confirmed the muscles were completely broken down in the previous victims,” Puffy says. “The best we can describe it is ‘complete cellular failure,’ starting from a few points of contact.“

“But what’s the _motive?_ ” Sam asks, because he was trained as an investigative officer and not a mortician. 

“Could be involuntary,” Puffy shrugs. “Stray power, loose temper. It happens.”

“They called me here because no one’s made leeway in the case since the first bodies started popping up.” Sam reaches a hand out to beckon a nearby intern, preparing a stretcher for the body to be moved. “You’d think if these were accidents, we would have caught on to who by now.”

Puffy gives another shrug, slow and slumped.

This case isn’t going well at all, them. 

“No leads, Sam,” she says, and she sounds so tired. “No leads. The media’s going to have a field day again.”

“You asked for me?” the intern asks, nearing them. 

“Yes, Tubbo, wasn’t it?” Sam hoped so. Getting names wrong isn’t a common occurrence with him, but with how often people are shifted around in the police department, especially newbies, it still happens more than it should.

“Yeah!” the kid - because he can’t be older than 18, and Sam should give whoever decided having him around here is a good idea an earful - brightens. “How can I help, sir?”

His eyes are a blue so much brighter than the other workers around them. Sam feels a pang of guilt at the way they’ll inevitably fade with constant sights of violence and death this field they work in thrusts at them. 

“When we get back, find the files for every previous death in this case and have them on my desk,” he says. 

“Oh! Do you think you have a lead?” Tubbo’s lights up even more, with an excited gleam that does nothing for Sam’s apprehension. “Everyone’s talking about the Black Death, imagine how famous we’d be if we solved it!”

“The _what?”_ Puffy whips around, hands tightening. 

“The Black Death! He’s got a name now - or she. Or - well, the killer!”

“It was to be expected, Puffy,” Sam says, sighing. “When 7 deaths turn up with the exact same markings, people are going to draw conclusions.”

Never a welcome development, what with the influx of amateur vigilantes bound to turn up chasing fame and glory for capturing a famous killer, but Sam’s 10 years of service have served him well.

Though, he does wish people had chosen a better name than _Black Death._ So what if it looks like a disease?

“Don't make any official comments,” he says, nodding at Puffy. “And for the love of Prime, Tubbo, please watch your mouth.”

“Of course, of course!”

There’s no time to evaluate the trustworthiness of Tubbo’s reassurances. Sam sighs again, rubbing his temples. He’s got a few meetings to arrange.

* * *

“...”

“I need a meeting with Philza Minecraft.”

“He’s not taking visitors.”

Sam leans back in his chair, the red _end call_ button blinking against the low yellow light of office lamps. But not yet. 

“Tell him it’s from Sam, the investigative officer. And that it’ll concern the Syndicate.”

“...the message will be delivered.”

Sam’s hung up on before he can do the same. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to stamp down his nerves. He and Philza have never particularly gotten along, but they’ve reached a sort of understanding throughout the course of their numerous clashes, some verbal and some resulting in more injuries than he should have let happen. 

But he’s a practical man - they both are, or at least Sam hopes so. And the leader of New York’s largest criminal organization will be invaluable in solving a case as strange as this. 

* * *

Philza Minecraft - or Dadza, as Wilbur still insistently refers to him by sometimes, would like to state that he had not signed up to play detective buddy to the police forces’ most uptight member ever.

No, cooperating with Phil’s demands is not an indication against his uptightness. That’s practically a requirement of the government and its forces nowadays, with how decades of organized crime have sunk its inescapable grips into the city. They should be grateful Phil has placed priority in maintaining stable power, rather than maximizing profits. 

Or as Techno would sum it up with, “L.” And then a quick gunshot, if they’re lucky. 

He should stop thinking about his sons so much in the middle of a potentially high stakes negotiation. 

“So you don’t think it’s a targeted motivation,” he says, snapping his attention back to Sam. He feels his black feathers prickling. 

“No message, no calling card, completely random victims, as far as anyone can tell - it’s clearly the same person with some sort of power, but we have nothing otherwise. No amount of camera footage or interviews bring up anything.” Sam sounds frustrated out of his mind. Once again, Phil finds himself immensely glad he didn’t continue his path of work at the police precinct, though perhaps dropping out to become who is essentially a mafia boss wasn’t what his peers had expected of him. 

_“Two roads diverged in a yellow road,”_ he can imagine Techno quip again. _“And I, I took the one less traveled by-”_

“And that has made all the difference,” Phil finishes softly. He wonders how Techno’s doing in university right now, no doubt slaving over an essay’s word choice, editing down to as close as perfection as he can possibly manage. 

“Philza, this is important. Get your mind off your children for just a single minute, please.”

Oh. He’s smiling like an idiot again. 

“Most people would get executed for referring to my sons like that,” Phil informs Sam, but there’s no bite behind it. They both - well, not _need_ each other. But require each other’s resources enough to get away with a little ribbing. 

And maybe they know each other a bit better than acquaintances. 

Case in point, Sam rolls his eyes and slides a stack of files across the table.

“Whatever. So can you search for leads?”

“We’ll certainly try,” Phil hums. He opens a file, and finds pages on a victim. Young girl, 16 year old who was walking home from the public library. Black spots developed suddenly - dead within 5 minutes. 

His heart contracts as he imagines something as unpredictably devastating happening to Wilbur or Techno - or even some others sworn beneath his protection, like Niki or that new child, Ranboo. 

Or even himself. After so long consolidating power, the thought is, admittedly, terrifying. 

Sources flash through his mind, the numerous number of people and powers Phil can call upon. Between technology and superpowers, New York City hasn’t seen a mystery as baffling and dangerous as this in a long, long time. 

“Don’t worry, Sam. Between your contacts and mine, we’ll crack this case wide open,” Phil reassures. “After all, we live in the twenty second century and not Victorian London.” 

“Right.” Sam exhales, long and hard, with the gravity of someone who’s done their job for years and done it _well._ Phil can sympathize. “And we still have some methods left to explore. I’ll get a list for you tomorrow.”

“Sure, and you can expect to hear me back within a day or two. Still have the feather?”

Sam nods, reaching into his leather satchel and pulling out a small black feather. Phil feels his wings twitch in reply. 

“Well, if you run into trouble then you know how to call me! Can’t have either of us suddenly croaking, now can we?”

“We’re not that old,” Sam rolls his eyes.

“My sons would beg otherwise,” Phil laughs. “I swear, they’re trying to make me retire already. Techno got me a rocking chair to ‘complete the old man image’ for my last birthday.”

Sam tenses slightly - in fear, maybe? Curious.

No, it’s worry. For Phil? But why?

Well, a question for another time. Maybe he really is taking the age concern more seriously than Phil anticipated, which is another hilarious opportunity to jab at him for later. 

“Oh well, see you soon!” 

Sam nods. There is a door, but they’re in a skyscraper a hundred stories up. The windows are huge and Phil has made sure they open. 

Within moments, the cold, familiar sensation of wind races down his entire being. And he’s nothing but a fading dark shape in the glittering city skyline. 

* * *

“Just - be careful, okay? You don’t have guards around.”

“I’ll be fine, Phil. Technoblade never dies, remember? As if any of your other men could actually match me.”

“I know, I know. But there’s so many unknowns with this. You know we can’t - we can’t lose anyone, Techno.”

“...right. I get it, Phil. Have you talked to Wilbur yet?”

“I will after this.”

“Alright, cool. And you better not let those old bones fail you either, dad.”

“Oh, you-”

* * *

He has to move. He can’t stay here. There’s too many people and that means it’s dangerous and he’s dangerous-

“Hello, are you lost?”

The stranger’s face is kind. Her eyes wrinkled around the edges, smiling softly. That’s how one of the previous ones was like too. How Wilbur was, though he doesn’t want to think about Wilbur. 

Point is, Tommy can’t make that same mistake again.

He turns, and he runs. Tattered slippers carry him away, color a flash of what was once neon green but now faded to the shade of charred sage. 

There’s an alleyway nearby. Trash bags piled high. 

Maybe there’s edible food. Tommy remembers, once, when he didn’t have to scourge through the fucking trash for sustenance like a stupid, pathetic raccoon, but he’s long since made peace with it. 

Anything than to be beneath Dream’s clutches. To be a weapon. 

To be a murderer. 

_You’re still a murderer,_ the thought comes. _How many times have you died since the escape? 8?_

No, no those were accidents, he can’t-

_The girl was screaming, he could hear her. Bones crumbling beneath the weight of her movements, skin darkening with the pestilence of his touch and Tommy wanted to help but he was silent and gaping and the darkness choking his soul-_

Breathe. 

Tommy digs a switchblade from his jean pockets, edges dulled with the persistence of a thousand slashes. It’ll be messy, but at least it’ll get the job done. He has to eat - _has to survive._ Before someone else pays the price. 

He glances around. Tall factory walls, quiet neighborhood. The silence of nothing but faint traffic in the distance. 

Tommy bites his lip and drags down a trash bag. He should be grateful his power prevents disease from overtaking his body, at least. Food poisoning won’t be a problem.

An hour later there’s a mess of plastic, chicken bones, and empty pizza boxes strewn around in the alleyway, and no sign of life to be seen. Tommy is gone once again, a corrupted whisper with the cold city winds. 

* * *

_The deaths are getting less frequent,_ Tubbo scribbles down. Two days between the first and second, and then 4 between the second and third. A week between the third and fourth. A month, nearly, between the two most recent ones. 

_Is the killer getting better control of their power?_

Or maybe they’re coming across less people?

Tubbo should be asleep by now. He shouldn’t even be _touching_ this case with his own judgements, without the oversight of Sam. 

But of course, he hasn’t gotten this far - the aide of one of, if not the most respected detective in New York, by taking orders idly. And if he could solve this case-

The pen clatters onto the table, jolting Tubbo out of that train of thought. He grins to himself, sheepishly, resolidifying his hands and picking it back up again. Intangibility has its uses (for spying on conversations he shouldn’t be spying on), but he has to work on control if he wants to have any coherent career.

Well, nothing like a nice - challenge?

Just like this case. 

Tubbo spins around to check his _to-do_ list, pinned to the billboard behind him like some generic detective movie. 

_What?_ It’s fun!

 _Check security footage_ is outlined clearly in sparkly gel pen green. He spins back and pulls up the files.

There’s only two, really. The first one is about as expected - a bustling restaurant. In a sick twist of fate the elderly couple is framed dead center, like it was all a punchline to some mystery film. The seconds tick by, and then - black spots bloom across the man’s hands, and then his throat, and then his face, like ink billowing across rippling waters. 

His pupils whiten. That’s the part that fascinates Tubbo - the eyes dilate and pale and whiten into a background through which blood red veins shoot their tendrils. And they’re frozen in that state, stuck in that image even as the rest of the body begins to crumble. Like they’re part of a prop dummy manufactured all wrong. 

His wife begins screaming, and with a wince Tubbo turns down the crackling audio. The victim’s face plops into a bowl of soup and an ambulance arrives shortly thereafter, flashing lights just visible from the edge of the screen. 

According to the files, he was dead when they dragged him off his seat, body already a coldness that could match the dead of city winter. 

Tubbo suppresses a shudder. Whatever power can do _that_ , he wouldn’t wish - well, he _would_ wish it on his worst enemies. It would be terrifyingly effective, for sure. 

The second footage can barely be considered visual evidence. The camera may be activated by motion sensing, but the lens were seriously cracked, or something. Combined with the blackness of night and Tubbo’s left puzzling over a screen of flickering static broken by the occasional dark shape. Two of them, facing each other, growing closer. 

It’s the audio that intrigues him, however. The level of static is just slightly less corrupted than the video portion, but there’s two audible voices as well. One higher, one lower. 

_“-don't want-”_

_“-fuck-”_

_“-stop there-”_

_“-give it to me-_

The voice of what sounds like a boy around his age, and a man much older. If Tubbo has to guess, it outlines a mugging. But the owner of the lower voice - as an autopsy of the vocal cords confirmed - was found dead in the morning. Same sickening profile on his body.

Sam should be doing this, Tubbo thinks as he uploads the file into an audio editing software. Prime, probably even Puffy. But no one’s mentioned the possibility of cleaning the audio up, so Tubbo’s taking credit whether they agree or not.

An hour of meticulous tinkering later, Tubbo plays the audio back.

_“Got some money to hand over, kid?”_

_“No.”_

_“Can see it in your hands. Now give it over-”_

_“Don’t want to.”_

There’s panic in that tone, real, genuine panic. Terrified pain laces the words. It sounds worse than when Tubbo freaked out over his test scores because his future job prospects depended on it. Because his _life_ depended on it, on not slaving away at the same minimum wage factory jobs his parents, and their parents, and their parents had been handed.

No one shouldn’t sound so terrified over some pocket money. There are shelters and soup kitchens and orphanages, if the person’s as young as he sounds. Like he’s around Tubbo’s age.

Tubbo frowns, notes it all down, and presses play again. Another piece to the mystery. 

_“Well then-”_

_“Stay - fuck! Stay away from me. You don’t want to-_

_“Don’t be an idiot. I need my dinner too, so just be a nice little boy and give me the cash.”_

_“NO! Fuck you, stay away, you really don’t want to stick around. Please I can’t-”_

_“Well, what if I don’t want to?”_

A movement of black, and a choked cry. Presumably, the money was taken.

And then, the larger shape stills. Collapses. 

A minute later there’s a pained whimper, cracking half-way through with the audio’s imperfections that even his clean up job couldn’t fix. 

Tubbo’s not one for sympathetic reactions, but something about the cry makes him want to reach through the screen and give the boy a hug. Clearly, he’s got problems on a wholly different level than Tubbo’s. 

But, well, the man was the one found dead later that morning. No traces of anyone else.

A power used as a self-defense mechanism, then? Something which can cause near immediate death - _and_ can’t be controlled? 

Such powers are extremely, extremely rare, given how human society is still standing. A few dozen heavily monitored people around the world, perhaps. It’s a terrible existence, to be so isolated from everyone else. 

Tubbo finds another yawn rising up. The time reads 2:00 AM on his watch, background flickering with a battery warning.

He feels sleepy. He feels tired. And suddenly - as the fear in the boy’s tone echoed once again in his mind - he doesn’t feel triumphant anymore. 

Mostly… sad. It’s strange, how quickly his mood shifted from that elated excitement at discovering groundbreaking evidence to this. A muted sorrow. 

Well, all the more reason to solve the case. Tubbo yawns again- and winces as his pen passes through his hands, smearing green across the mousepad of his laptop. 

Time to sleep, and show this to Sam tomorrow. 

And then-

They have a mystery to solve. And potentially, someone to save. 

**Author's Note:**

> new project because i have zero self control and canon has slayed me yet again. hopefully this fic wont end up being too long, though who knows where the au itself will go
> 
> discord where i chat about stuff. we have places for writing advice and school work help and also a suspiciously high amount of rubber ducks - <https://discord.gg/bhvEjkwcCU>  
> i stream replying to ao3 comments and chatting about dsmp events on sundays! twitch here - <https://www.twitch.tv/interjection_>
> 
> my tumblr, where nothing good happens: <https://lnterjection.tumblr.com/>
> 
> why do i have a twitter i never use? idk - <https://twitter.com/lnterjection>


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